My Dearest Martha,

I am blogging to you for what I fear may be the final time, as I bleed out next to the Reflecting Pool. I had hoped to reapply the invisible 350-yard gash and thus administer a small, algae-tinted imperfection to an otherwise flawless utopia, but of course the snipers on top of the triumphal arch put an end to my nefarious scheme. The midterms are surely lost. I hereby renounce Antifa and its lies; please inform Clay Higgins of the location of the hidden underground lair where we park the ghost buses.

I skipped the chapter on megalomania in Psych 101; is it good or bad when they start invoking “national security” in assaults on our fundamental rights? Or when they propose triumphal arches with snipers on top, for that matter?

How about when they swipe, however flaccidly, at the free press? Although, of course, there are legitimate questions as to whether or not the Founders intended the First Amendment to extend to lady reporters who don’t smile enough.

I suppose I’m being dramatic. He really only attempted to violently overturn that one election. I mean, okay, his fashier supporters are urging him to declare martial law, but I’m sure the Cabinet that periodically assembles for public supplication rituals can be trusted to rein him in.

Nobody in that crew is dreading the post-blue wave return of accountability, right? No doubt our perpetually push-upping Secretary of War will happily accept responsibility for the eight suicide attempts among that aircraft carrier crew he forgot to feed. You can’t expect a man to make time for both supply line logistics and workout videos.

Panicked Republicans would like America to know they were only kidding about that decade of blind fealty to the warmongering dipshit who made everything more expensive, as polling reveals an electorate curiously unimpressed with the administration’s ongoing efforts to rename theatre buildings after said dipshit.

Why, it’s gotten so bad out there that Byron Donalds of all stooges has scrubbed the Dotard’s name from his campaign site. Probably woulda been more convincing before you swapped out your entire wardrobe for a closet full of ill-fitting blue suits and too-long red neckties, kid.

You know you’re losing your grip on your death cult when your son can’t even throw a Kremlin-funded wedding without mid-level apparatchiks hemming and/or hawing about investigations.

But like the old saying goes, when the going gets tough, the tough isolate themselves in elaborate fantasy worlds enabled by human printers and throw themselves parties.

We must remember the parties. Donnie’s little twirl on the world stage this week was one small stumble for a doddering narcissist, one giant leap backwards for a global power.

Everyone was super impressed with his big, tuff speech at the U.N., avenging our national humiliation one year ago at the Battle of the Escalator and Later the Teleprompter. PERHAPS ME ANNIHILATE IRAN he mused cognitively ME HAVE PLENTY OF AMMUNITION NO MATTER WHAT DUMB FAKE NEWS SAY.

And while “to the victor belong the spoils” is unlikely to top the Family Feud board under Things the American President Should Say at the U.N., I certainly look forward to applying the principle after the midterms.

Embarrassing as all that was, he saved the really degrading stuff for Xi Jinping. See, when a foreign autocrat helps Iran target American servicemen, the penalty is that you get images of uniformed American troops literally on their knees rolling out a literal red carpet for you.

Hell, Donnie’ll let you insult the whole dang country right to his face. Go ahead; how the fuck would he know what the Thucydides Trap is? He just wants to show you his helipad and his autopen picture. We have to build the ballroom because the ballroom will have the biggest, most beautiful cuck chair in the whole wide world.

I’d like nothing more than to disparage the summit as a failure, but even I must grudgingly acknowledge the international coalition he’s building to call it “super intelligence” rather than “artificial intelligence.” I have no idea how branding works in a Thucydides Trap, but I imagine there’s a manual.

I do find “super intelligence” appropriately deferential in his case, however. Like WHOA, that robot can look at a picture of a cow and tell you it’s a cow right away! It doesn’t have to ask the doctor for a hint or anything!

I can’t figure out how the FBI got hacked on Kash Patel’s watch. I suppose when you get swept up in the minutiae of composing bestiality loopholes for the HR department, petty shit like information security can slip through the cracks.

Senator Tuberville’s investigative genius likely saved the nation from Furry 9/11, but does anybody even say thank you? Don’t be surprised when he rechristens the Alabama Governor’s Mansion as Tommy’s Furry Detective Agency, announced by a cardboard sign out front, promising to take on cases for 25 cents a day.

I’m super bummed about Freedom Fest getting cancelled. As the proud holder of one of just six VIP tickets sold, I was looking forward to the promised experience, including access to a private concession area with exotic, lead-free cinnamon.

I was about to praise Dear Leader for securing enough precious Belarusian potash to extract us from ‘neath the thumb of the filthy Canuck, but then it turned out that Belarus doesn’t have enough potash to sell us and couldn’t sell it to us if they did.

Is that what we’ve come to at long last? I can handle a riot now and then, but WHO LIES ABOUT POTASH? Some things are sacred, dammit.

Better not be spending my taxpayer money on any creepy cringey culty campaign ads while you’re lying to me about potash. That’s where I draw the line.

I thought it was sweet of the regime to drop that investigation into Susan Collins’ corrupt relationship with that one defense contractor as a little treat for her invaluable assistance rolling back women’s rights. Sure would be a shame if that scandal blew up a month or so before a wave election.

I certainly can’t blame anyone who never trusts a poll again, but for now, I’m choosing to trust Republican fear. They tend to get antsy when the internals show them losing in districts they just gerrymandered this summer.

That Roger Marshall doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind. Never dreamed he’d have to run an actual campaign. I grew up in Kansas; it’s pretty red…might not be Sic the Cops on Young Mothers Over Fifty Bucks red, though. At least Daddy’s helping out with some last-minute ICE thuggery.

Okay, I need to drink extra hard this weekend because of the potash situation as well as my lost opportunity to meet Kid Rock. If you enjoyed this diatribe, you may express your appreciation by buying me a beer, via PayPal, Cash App, or even Venmo.

I also have an email list you can join and a Xwitter account you follow. And, come to think of it, a comic book Kickstarter you can back!

Issue #2 of General Washington and the Liberty Tree is coming together so well, and I’m almost ready to sell it to – er, share it with you guys! Here’s a peek at our cover:

Screenshot

Nifty, huh? Our artist, Jason Muhr, is pretty special. And if you don’t believe me, feel free to read issue #1! I’m still looking to sweep up the last few stragglers from the last Kickstarter campaign. If you haven’t answered your survey, I can’t ship your comics!

Ok, stay safe out there!